Chapter 556 - 498: Extraordinary Profession [Barbarian]

Chapter 556: Chapter 498: Extraordinary Profession [Barbarian]

"So that’s how it is..."

He understood.

While the description was filled with primal poetry and metaphors, its core requirements were exceptionally clear and demanding.

First, "a desperate plight."

This wasn’t just ordinary danger or a hard-fought battle, but a true life-or-death crisis—a hopeless situation where both body and Spirit were pushed to the very brink of collapse.

The phrase "death’s cold hand gripping your neck" was no exaggeration; it was a prerequisite.

Second, "a conscious flame of fury."

In such an extreme state, one couldn’t succumb to madness born of Fear or the instinctive struggles of a dying animal.

One had to maintain a degree of conscious will, to actively "ignite" a blazing fury and a will to fight—one that stemmed from the primal instinct of life itself, a defiance against the end.

It was an almost paradoxical requirement.

To remain conscious while on the verge of death. To actively ignite a fire of rage in the midst of despair.

Then, "a clear transcendence."

Merely surviving was not enough.

One had to, in the "chasm between life and death," accomplish a distinct feat that surpassed one’s normal limits.

This could be anything from unleashing a burst of theoretically impossible Power to kill an enemy in one strike, to dragging a mortally wounded body, one that should by all rights be dead, to complete a crucial, tide-turning action.

There had to be a clear, discernible moment of "ascension," proving to oneself and the world that mortal limits had been shattered.

Finally, "survival and the brand."

After achieving this transcendence, one had to leave the desperate plight alive.

This experience would become an indelible brand upon one’s very soul and flesh, causing their lifeblood and fighting spirit to forever carry the tremor of this "limit-breaking" moment.

Only then would one have truly knocked upon that door.

’This isn’t so much a prerequisite for a Profession as it is a brutal, life-or-death ritual...’

Roland mused to himself.

It didn’t demand specific training or knowledge, only an ultimate trial of will and Life Energy, completed on the very edge of life and death.

Survive, leave your mark, and you would gain the qualification.

Unlike the grand, ceremonial path to becoming a Knight—which leaned more toward faith and heritage—the path to becoming a Barbarian required no specific setting or witness. However, its inherent danger was, without a doubt, on another level entirely.

It was a mad trial, a dance with death, a defiant challenge to the very limits of life.

After a long moment of contemplation, Roland finally shook his head with a sense of resignation.

His current situation was unclear, and his physical condition was far from ideal.

To rashly attempt to meet such incredibly demanding conditions would be tantamount to suicide.

The priority now was to survey his surroundings, ensure his own safety, and then plan his next move.

Just as he was weighing his options, his ears twitched. He caught the sound of heavy footsteps on old wooden floorboards, approaching along the second-floor hallway.

The footsteps stopped right outside his door.

Roland’s brow furrowed, but his movements were phantom-like in their speed.

He instantly erased all trace of thought and inquiry from his face. His form slid silently back to the edge of the bed, and he quickly lay down, his eyes becoming vacant and dazed in a split second.

He looked exactly like someone who had just struggled to consciousness after a long stupor, completely unaware of his surroundings.

A split second after he settled into position, the door swung open with a CREAK.

A tall figure appeared in the doorway, blocking most of the light from the hall.

The newcomer wore a mud-stained leather jacket. His brown hair was slightly damp, his chin was covered in stubble, and his expression was a mixture of laziness and a hint of world-weariness.

The moment the door opened, however, Roland’s exceptionally keen Perception had already caught something amiss.

The man exuded the unique aura of a Transcendent. More importantly, Roland could sense a faint Energy circulating within him—an extremely weak trace, but with a "flavor" completely distinct from that of ordinary Element or Life Energy.

It was a glimmer that carried a sense of Order and divinity, as if touched by the lingering afterglow of a higher being.

’Gods?’

Roland dismissed the thought as soon as it arose.

’No, it’s too faint. If not for my unique Perception, I would have barely noticed it. Then... a Professional who serves the Gods? A Priest?’

The name of an Extraordinary Profession, one that had long since vanished in the "future" timeline he knew, surfaced in his mind.

This set off faint alarm bells in his mind, but the lost and helpless expression on his face remained unchanged.

"Oh? You’re awake?"

A flicker of surprise crossed the man’s face. He sized up Roland, who had "just" opened his eyes, then closed the door and walked over.

"How’re you feeling? Anything hurt in particular?"

The man asked casually, but his gaze habitually swept over Roland’s exposed skin and the look in his eyes, a clear hint of observation in them.

"Anyway, friend, how’d you end up passed out alone on the edge of the Black Forest? Godsforsaken place like that... You weren’t even wearing a decent coat. Almost froze into a popsicle."

Roland adopted an even more confused expression, as if trying hard to remember. His lips moved a few times, but it ended in a bitter, vacant shake of his head. His voice was hoarse and hesitant.

"I... I don’t know. I can’t remember... Where is this?"

Seeing this, the surprise on Holland’s face gave way to resigned understanding.

He shrugged, not seeming too surprised. After all, plenty of strange things happened in these borderlands.

"Can’t remember, huh? Tsk, what a pain."

He scratched his head, then pulled over the room’s only wobbly-legged chair and plopped down without a care.

"Name’s Holland. I’m an Adventurer, make my living around here. A few days ago, I was heading back to town after a ’small job’ on the outskirts of the Black Forest when I found you in a ditch on the side of the road. So I dragged... er, brought you back."

"This is Lin Ye Town. You’re at the Oak Barrel and Horn tavern. The owner, Karen, is an old guy with a sharp tongue but a soft heart. I’m the one who fronted the money for your medical fees..."

And with that, it was as if a switch had been flipped.

Perhaps from his habit of rambling in taverns, the words started pouring out of him like a machine gun.

"I tell you, you’re not that unlucky, running into me. If it had been someone else, they probably would’ve stripped you bare and left you for dead. Not many good people left these days... Oh, but of course, I’m no saint myself. You gotta remember to pay me back for the medical bills... though looking at you, it’s not like you can pay up anytime soon..."

"So, where are you from anyway? A traveler from the eastern trade route? Nah, doesn’t seem right. You’ve got the build of someone who’s trained... Don’t tell me you’re one of the Mercenaries fleeing from the north? Things have been getting pretty messy up there... No, that’s not it either. The rags you were wearing when I found you didn’t look like any standard-issue gear..."

His words were a fast, dense torrent. The topics jumped from one thing to another, interspersed with pointless self-interrogation and trivial speculation.

Roland felt as if a dozen bees were buzzing in his ears, and a dull throb started in his temples.

This torrential gift of gab instantly reminded him of his own companion, a Minstrel who was also famous for being "talkative."

No...

Roland silently corrected himself.

’This guy’s ramblings are probably even a notch above Galvis’s.’

Amidst this headache-inducing drone, Roland’s thoughts acted like a high-precision probe, swiftly filtering the man’s words for any shred of useful information.

Suddenly, a name cut through the noisy chatter and was captured with perfect clarity.

Holland.

Roland’s gaze froze for an imperceptible instant.

His eyelids, which had been slightly drooped to match his dazed expression, lifted. His gaze locked precisely onto the still-rambling man before him, and his hoarse voice cut through the endless speculation.

"Wait. You said your name is... Holland?"